


burning through my veins

by starblessed



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Character Injury, Piggyback Rides, Poison, Pre-Slash, Snakes, Wilderness Survival
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:28:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24364333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starblessed/pseuds/starblessed
Summary: The war is over; they're headed home; it's summertime in Austria, and the world looks brighter than it ever has before.All Babe wants to do is enjoy an afternoon out, to bask by a lakeside in the sun...  and maybe spend it with Gene, who could use a day of rest more than anybody. The two of them don't anticipate danger, lurking just under their feet, in the form of a fanged serpent.The damn war isover--  Babe isn't about to lose anyone else now.
Relationships: Babe Heffron/Eugene Roe
Comments: 3
Kudos: 48





	burning through my veins

**Author's Note:**

> so I have made up my own species of venomous snake and dropped it into Austria for the sheer purpose of this fic. am I allowed to do that? I mean, probably not. am I ashamed? … not as much as I should be. this fic was written for the tumblr prompt "baberoe - paralysis" and i honestly just ran with it. 
> 
> Of course, the characters in this fic are based off of their fictional portrayals from the miniseries Band of Brothers, and I mean no disrespect to the real-life veterans!
> 
> Find me on tumblr at [renelemaires](http://renelemaires.tumblr.com/)!

It happens too quick to see — even in the aftermath, when they’re both blinking at each other in confusion and wondering exactly what the hell happened. This is what Babe knows for sure: he and Doc Roe are trudging through a wooded shortcut just discovered by Janovec this morning, because Babe wants to show Gene this really cool lake he found, because Gene seems like the sort of person who _likes_ lakes… and Gene is a few steps ahead of him, moving fluidly through the woods, and he’s saying something Babe’s only half-listening to because the sunlight dappled through trees to hit Gene’s inky hair is _something to see,_ okay, and then Gene must ask him a question he completely misses because Gene turns to him, and his eyes are smiling where his mouth isn’t, and he takes a step back…

_Crack. Snap. “Shit!”_

So, there are snakes in Austria. This would have been a nice thing to mention beforehand.

“Gene?” The word leaves Babe’s mouth like a foreign object. He can’t really process what he’s seeing, is the thing — and from the look on Gene’s face, neither can he. He's bent forward with one leg lifted lightly over the ground, hand clasped to his ankle. It takes a minute for Gene to look up at Babe again. When he does, his mouth is tight around the edges; all traces of that silent laughter are gone.

“This might be bad,” he declares, and lifts his hand to show blood.

“Jesus Christ!”

Babe can’t help cringing, his entire body arcing into himself, like the two tiny punctures on Gene’s ankle are the goriest sight he’s ever seen. Far from it, really… but just the idea of some slimy thing digging its teeth in him stings, never mind actually looking at it. The wound on Gene’s ankle is bright red, leaking blood like twin bullet wounds. It’s not spurting out or anything, not like when Jackson got hit, but… Jesus, those are _bites._ Goddamn _bites._ Babe is so busy staring at the snake marks that he almost forgets Gene is staring at him.

“Don’t you pass out on me, Heffron,” Gene orders, voice sharp as steel.

Babe snaps back to attention with army-honed quickness, a wheeze escaping him as he straightens up. “No… no way. It’s fine. Christ, it’s okay, Gene.”

“Actually, it’s poisoned,” Gene remarks mildly.

**_“What?”_ **

“Two holes means venomous.” Gene’s hand hovers over the ankle, like even he’s uncertain what to do about it, and that scares Babe more than anything else. “Not to mention, it burns like hell.”

Suddenly, the simple act of standing feels like running through open fire. Babe turns his attention to the ground, hopping on his toes, like more snakes are about to slither in and eat him alive… but he only catches sight of movement on the ground not far from Gene. A sleek brown serpent slithers away into the bushes. Other than that, the forest floor is bare.

“Think I stepped on it,” Gene continues, voice tight and aggravated. “No wonder it bit me, but he sure blends in — hopping won’t help you, Heffron, cut that out.”

“Who decided not to mention _snakes?”_

“You didn’t listen when they mentioned snakes,” Gene corrects. His chest is kinda heaving, like drawing breath takes more effort, but that’s got to just be from adrenaline, right? Or could it be the snakes? Babe’s never seen a goddamn snake before, he lives in South fuckin’ Philly, he doesn’t know these things — “We got antivenom back at base, but ain’t had to use it before. Some of these fellas can be nasty customers.”

“No kidding.” Babe is still eyeing Gene’s bite like it’s about to bite him. Venom… if the bite’s poisoned, then why does it look so simple? Like any old cut his little sister could get from playing with Ma’s sewing needles, or what Babe’s been dumb enough to do to himself on old nails. Just… punctures. Not any weird colors, not leaking anything... except they were made with _teeth,_ from a goddamn serpent, and that’s all the difference.

Not to mention, if that wound’s poisoned, doesn’t that mean...

Suddenly, the word _venom_ clicks in his head, like he’s just translated it from a different language. People get sick from snake bites; they even die from them. Something in Babe’s stomach bottoms out, a new wave of panic gripping him. They’ve gotta get Gene back to town, and to that antivenom. _Now._

“Alright, Gene. Up and at ‘em!” In the time Babe’s spent processing this, Gene sat down hard on the ground… which seems like the worst place to be for a fella who's already been a snake’s chew toy once today. Babe leans forward, holding out a hand, but Gene just blinks at it.

“Yeah,” he says slowly, like Babe’s just told a joke he doesn’t get. “Okay.”

“Okay, get up! Not — Gene, we’ve been _over this_ already, for chrissakes —“ Babe seizes hold of his hand for him, and hauls him up in one fell swoop. It helps that Gene doesn’t weigh all that much — but even this weight is a lot, when his legs buckle as soon as he’s on his feet. Yelping, Babe scrambles to steady him, an arm locking around his ribcage. “What the hell, Gene?”

“Sorry, sorry…” Gene forces himself back upright, but has to brace too much of his weight against Babe for either of them to pretend it hadn’t happened at all. “Leg, uhh, feels weird. Getting all numb.”

“How fast does the venom spread?”

“Well, it depends on the snake, don’t it? Should have asked him how quick he wanted to kill me.” And, okay, Babe deserves the annoyed clip in his voice, but Gene talking about death so casually does nothing for his swelling panic. “Seems to work pretty fast. I’ve never seen this before, Heffron, so I don’t know.”

They don’t have any time to stand around bickering about this. Babe leads Gene forward, one step after another. This time, Gene manages to stay upright; even though he’s obviously favoring one leg over another, he matches Babe’s pace. “We ain’t got snakes back in Philly, so this is all new to me,” Babe declares, just to say something in his own defense. “Haven’t you got snakes down in Louisiana?”

“Sure. But in Bayou Chene, our reptiles’ve got a lot more teeth. Not to mention legs.” At Babe’s look of aghast horror, Gene just huffs. “You’ll figure it out, Heffron.”

“Don’t tell me the little fuckers can grow legs. Gene? You’re messing with me, right? He can’t run after us, can it? _Jesus, Mary and—“_

Gene stumbles again, so suddenly that Babe barely has the chance to catch him. One second he’s walking, and the next —

“C’mon, Gene,” Babe huffs, propping the man back upright. “I know it hurts, but we aren’t too far. You gotta make it back.”

“I’m trying,” Gene snaps, with a ferocity that takes Babe aback. He’s never heard that growl in the old Doc’s voice, or seen such wire-taut frustration in his eyes. Gene’s hands clench into fists, one gripping his knee and the other steadied against Babe’s chest. It takes a moment before he’s willing to put weight on it again. The skin around the cut is already bright red and inflamed; as Babe watches, he swears he can see it swell up a bit more, like a goddamn balloon. It’s hell to look at, so he can’t imagine what Gene’s got to be feeling.

As soon as Gene tests his weight, the leg buckles. He falls to one knee, a sharp curse escaping him; a second later, in his struggle to scramble back up, he just manages to fall sideways and land on his ass.

Babe is left feeling profoundly helpless — eager to help, but certain of wounding Gene’s pride if he tries. “What — what’s wrong with it?” he asks instead, sounding too much like a frightened kid.

Gene’s hand hovers over the swollen ankle... but at the first touch he draws away with a hiss. Instead, he fondles up his calf, brows knit together and face paler than usual. “It…” he says, and pauses for a long moment. When he draws in a breath, it trembles. “It’s really burning. Burning bad, but it’s not… Heffron, I don’t know. Don’t think I can walk on it.”

“Why not?” Babe demands, desperate.

“Because it’s gone numb.” When Gene looks up, his eyes are black and piercing; they cut straight through Babe’s soul. “I can’t feel my leg, Babe. All the way up to the knee, and it’s moving fast.”

“What the hell’s it doing? Paralyzing you?”

He means it as a joke. Gene doesn’t laugh.

“Shit.” Babe presses a hand to his face, then runs it through his hair with earnest. “Shit, shit, shit. Will that kill you? It sounds like it can kill you.”

“Depends on how quick it gets to my lungs.” The amazing thing is how calm Gene sounds, in spite of it all. No one should sound _that fucking calm_ while a deadly toxin’s blazing through their system. If anyone could, it’s Gene Roe — but all the panic he doesn’t have, Babe’s got in spades. For a moment, it’s paralyzing.

The thought clicks in his head too late; he goes still, and barks out a harsh, sudden laugh. Panic is paralyzing him while Gene’s _literally_ being paralyzed.

_Goddammit, Heffron, get your shit together._

“Okay,” he says — and finally, finally, he’s not two inches away from tumbling over the edge. Maybe he doesn’t know what’s happening, but he can at least sound like it. “You really think you can’t walk on it, huh?” When Gene shakes his head, eyes grin, Babe’s mouth goes tight. “Okay! We got two options here, Gene. We could sit and wait for your goddamn lungs to freeze up, or —“ Babe swallows hard, like forcing an entire egg down his throat, and straightens his shoulders. “Or, I gotta carry you the rest of the way.”

It’s not ideal. They both know it. Gene isn't that light, Babe isn’t that strong, and a fella has a certain amount of dignity even when he might be dying. The thing is — they don’t _have_ any other options. Sitting and waiting is out of the question, so far out of the question that it ain’t a question at all. If they don’t move, Gene will just get worse... and no way in hell is Babe letting that happen.

Their eyes lock, and a ripple of unspoken communication passes between them. Something in Gene’s expression steels itself, while Babe forces a deep breath.

“Alright,” Gene says. “Let’s go.”

Babe hits the ground on one knee, and Gene’s arms wrap around his neck a second later. Credit where credit’s due, he’s not taking any chances; no way will Babe be able to drop him when Gene’s got a grip like a clingy toddler, locking around his neck like he’s half-set on strangling him. Babe chokes involuntarily, and Gene quickly eases up; a muttered “sorry” rumbles in his ear as the grip adjusts.

When Gene finally feels steady, Babe hauls himself to his feet, dragging the other man up with him. Now, Gene’s full weight is really braced against him, and it hurts. Hastily, Babe scrambles to get a more solid grip, hunching forward to ease him up. After a moment, he feels Gene leave the ground, most of that weight settling on his shoulders and back.

“Jesus, Doc,” he mutters. “You been storin’ food through the winter? Bastogne’s over now, buddy, you can share the wealth!”

Gene cuffs him lightly on the side of the head. In spite of the situation, Babe laughs.

After that, it’s just… putting one foot in front of the other. A harder task than you’d think, because of Babe thought dragging him alone was tough, carrying a guy is even worse. Is this how Luz feels all the time, with his massive radio? Better yet, where’s Bull Randleman when you need him? If Babe was meant to haul fellas around like potato sacks, he wouldn’t have played the goddamn trumpet in high school. Despite the weight, he steels himself and pushes forward. Going is slower than he’d like, but at least they’re moving. Base isn’t that far away, and they’re still going faster than they would if Gene were walking on his own.

Gradually, Babe’s breathing grows more labored. His body working overtime to carry twice its weight, struggling to keep up. It takes him too long to realize he isn’t the only one. Gene’s body is working harder too; his breaths are gradually turning into pants, arms tightening around Babe’s shoulders as his legs slowly grow slack. Through their layers of clothing, Babe can feel Gene’s heartbeat against his back. It’s too damn fast.

“How you holdin’ in there, Gene?” he asks, after his grip on the other man’s ass nearly slips. Not much longer now — it _can’t_ be long, can it?

“I’m — uhh —“ Gene takes too long to answer, and that scares Babe the most. His voice is hoarse, too low to be called anything but a murmur. “Been better.”

“Yeah, I bet.” And that tells Babe exactly nothing. “What are you feeling?”

“Uh,” says Gene.

“Okay, better question, what aren’t you feeling?”

“Well — my legs are still there, right?”

Jesus Christ. “Yeah, they’re still there.”

“All I need to know.”

Forcing the worry out of his mind, Babe charges forward. At last, the path is more road than wilderness, somewhere familiar. More sure of himself now, Babe leads the way, silently praying for a Jeep to pass. Anything that can get them there quicker will be a godsend; as it is, they’re fifteen minutes out from any help, and he’s really not sure Gene can last that long.

The burden on his back only grows heavier as Gene becomes more and more dead weight. He murmurs something about his fingers, and suddenly his hands have grown slack; Babe just tightens his grip, knowing that if Gene can no longer hang on, the situation’s going to get a whole lot harder. What other options does he have? Fireman’s hold? Bridal carry? Hell, he could _try it —_

“Babe,” Gene mutters, pressing the word into the side of his neck as his head lolls against Babe’s shoulder. “We almost there?”

“Yeah, buddy. Almost. Stay with me, okay?”

“‘Kay,” Gene agrees, and doesn’t try to speak again. Maybe he doesn’t have the energy; maybe he just can’t get the words together. It’s hard to tell which idea scares Babe the most.

He’s just readjusting his grip on Gene’s limp lower body when a distinctive rattle echoes from further down the path. Babe goes tense. A second later, the truck rounds the corner, in all its rattling glory. With a whoop, Babe charges straight for it, practically bouncing in the middle of the road.

“Hold it! Hey, stop the damn car!”

The driver is a stranger, a supply man who doesn’t look a bit happy about being halted on his route. “What’s goin’ on here?” he demands, looking Babe and his unusual cargo up and down.

Babe doesn’t even bother replying. Before the guy can protest, he slings Gene up into the truckbed and scrambles in after him, slamming on the hood for good measure. “Sorry, buddy, but you gotta turn around. Get us to the hospital now!”

“Hospital? What for?”

“For crissakes, I’ll tell ya as we drive, just go! It’s an emergency!”

The engine rumbles to life again. Babe hunches over Gene, eager to protect him from the dust and smog. Underneath him, Gene is tense and unmoving; each breath rattles in Babe’s ears, louder than the truck as it begins to gutter down the road. After a moment, it’s safe enough to pull back. Babe forces himself up on aching arms to regard Gene’s face, and nearly chokes on his own heart.

Gene’s face is colorless. Completely drained, a stark milky-grey like laundry water after Ma’s gotten through with it. His mouth hangs half-open, lips shuddering as he clings to every earnest breath. Black eyes, darker than ever in his ghostly face, peer blankly up at the sky. Desperate to rouse him, Babe presses a hand against his face, and finds that his skin is burning.

“Shit, _shit_ — Gene! Stay with me, buddy!”

It takes a minute for the life to stir back in his eyes. “Where’m I gonna go?” Gene finally demands, sounding affronted. God help them both, Babe can’t help barking out a hoarse laugh.

“Nowhere. Goddamn _nowhere,_ cause I’m not gonna let you. We’re almost there, okay?” Babe presses down on his shoulders, like he can squeeze some feeling back into Gene’s rapidly-numbing body; no doubt the terror on his own face is obvious, but Gene’s so out of it that there’s a chance he can’t tell. That’s what Babe clings to, though the agonizing, rattling ride — he’s gotta be strong for Gene’s sake. He draws Gene close to his chest, gripping him tight, feet braced against the side of the truck to support them both. Each breath is precious; he charts the rhythm of Gene’s breathing, trying to steady it with his own. At some point, Gene tried to raise an arm, only for it to flop back down… but when Babe asks him if he’s getting any worse, he just shakes his head. Probably a lie, but Babe’ll take it.

“Gonna be alright, Gene,” he mutters as the town square finally rattles into view ahead. “Look. We’re here. Can you see that we’re here?”

“Can’t lift my head,” is all Gene mutters.

Babe lifts it for him. Something in Gene’s cloudy expression clears at the sight of familiar surroundings — and the tiny group of Easy men, clustered on the street corner, smoking and smirking at each other. Babe doesn’t pause to explain anything, even to their poor driver. As soon as the truck jutters to a stop, he springs out, waving his friends over. “Thank god — Hashey, find a medic, will ya? Or a surgeon, get a goddamn surgeon, tell him there’s a snake bite — the two of you, come on, help me lift him. Doc’s in bad shape.”

This is a familiar song and dance by now. They’ve done this before, after sneak attacks and harebrained patrols, scrambling into action to aid a wounded friend. Only thing different now is that the war’s over, and it’s _Doc_ on the table. Luckily, no one needs to be told twice. Hashey sprints off like the devil’s on his heels, while Ramirez and Alley quickly join Babe’s cause; together, they’re able to slide Gene’s body towards the edge of the truck, laying him out flat. From there, no one’s really certain what to do. Babe stands near Gene’s head, practically cradling him, while the other men exchange bewildered, rattled glances.

“A snake, Babe?” Alley demands.

“A fucking snake,” Babe confirms.

Everything’s a blur from there. Hashey returns, a surgeon on his heels; he’s got a needle the size of Babe’s whole arm, and that’s the point things get real hazy. Babe has to shut his eyes past a wave of dizziness, but he hears Gene gasp in pain, the surgeon mutter something, and the shuffle of men moving a limp body. By the time Gene’s steady on a cot, being hauled into the building, his eyes are shut, head killing back.

And Babe’s left… standing. Useless, alone, and wondering if he was any help at all.

“Jesus _Christ,_ Babe,” Alley hisses, dragging a hand through his hair. Hashey whistles, staring at the ground. Ramirez looks like he’s just chugged three week old stew.

Babe slumps back against the bed of the truck, exhausted. His heart stutters in his chest; his throat feels tight. After a minute, he slumps forward like his strings have been cut, hands coming up to cradle his head.

“Hey, everything alright?” a voice from the front of the truck calls. After a minute, the driver leans his head out, just enough to look at Babe and his friends. “Private, is your friend going to be okay?”

“I don’t know,” Babe mutters — and then, for the guy’s benefit, “Can’t say yet. They’ve gotta… work on him, or some shit.”

“You did a hell of a job getting him here,” is all the driver says — and, when Babe looks back in surprise, just shrugs. “Like a man possessed. I couldn’t have kept driving if I wanted to. Never seen anybody look like that.”

Babe huffs a sigh. It rattles in his chest, hurting as it comes out, but he manages to summon a smile. “Th- thanks, pal.” Giving the truck an affectionate pat, he pushes himself off, and offers the driver a wave.

The driver waves back. With a guttural roar, the engine starts back up again; after a minute, the truck and its cargo rattle off down the street, out of sight.

Babe tucks his hands in his pants and sighs. His head turns up to the sky, as if drawn there.

“Okay,” he says to his friends. “Who’s got some damn cigarettes?”

* * *

“You saved my life.”

He can’t bring himself to meet Gene’s eyes. Babe stares at the blanket instead — the crisp, clean, certified hospital blanket, the kind you’d only find in a town that hasn’t been bombed to hell. Jesus, what they wouldn’t have killed for a set-up like this in Bastogne; a roof over their heads, a warm bed, blankets, even pillows. Fluffy ones, stuffed with actual feathers.

“Who knew all you gotta do to live it up ‘round here is almost die?” Babe quipped when he walked in — a stupid crack, but it brought a tiny smile to Gene’s washed out face, so damn him if it wasn’t a victory.

Now, though… he can’t quite do it. Even though Gene’s okay — and there’s no question of that anymore, now that the anti-venom’s done its work and the fever’s cleared up — it’s all too fresh, too raw to dwell on. Babe’s gotten good at shoving the awful things aside, smothering them under heaps of snow until he can only feel the weight of them, not the sting. Seeing Gene like that… god, it hurt, Hurt he hadn’t felt since Julian, since Jackson, since watching friends choke and die while being able to do nothing for them. That helplessness has become familiar as an aching scar; Babe knows he’ll never forget it, for as long as he lives, but feeling it with this man in his arms was something else.

“You scared the hell out of me, Gene,” he finally manages, still staring at the blanket. “Wasn’t your fault, but… Christ. I never wanna see that again. Never wanna feel that damn scared. Never wanna feel like… like I might lose _you_ too.” Finally, he drags his gaze up, to meet Gene’s impossibly dark eyes. “Please don’t do that again.”

Gene stares at him for a long moment, unmoving. It’s like he’s paralyzed all over again; Babe can barely stand it.

Finally, a flash of movement draws Babe’s gaze down again. There, inching across the blanket — Gene’s hand, fingers flexing, reaching towards home

“Hey, you’re not supposed to try and move ‘til that stuff’s out of you completely —“

“I’m alright.” Gene’s voice is soft, like something fragile. When his hand finds Babe’s, though, he’s _strong;_ he grips Babe like a promise, the sort neither of them are bold enough to break. They’re both alive, both here, and neither one is going anywhere. That’s enough for now.

“Thank you, Babe,” Gene murmurs, and Babe’s heart stutters in his chest.

“Yeah… any time, Doc.”


End file.
